In God's breath he waits,
the candle dimming as the
clock ticks and hours are slate,
his heart's echoes losing the war

As his hands bridge the abyss
of his fate while his mind
catches faith's miss;
fortune has a length to climb

With the strength of string
and no true grip
or able grasp to ring
the tower bell of Heaven's kinship-

And to his back tied this pail,
of needed pride sinking him
to the depths of Jonah's whale,
unable to release the whim

Of something delegated to sin;
the inability to call to the power
and make true his acceptance of Him,
even as the shadows of his final hour

Creep upon his flesh-worn frame,
burdened with the punnet of age,
no fruit able to let him know youth's flame
nor his frailty an answer to sage

Wisdom that has been boast
to descend upon those of change,
with answers that are host
to those within death's range.